


God Help Her

by MaxWrite



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Adultery, Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-24
Updated: 2010-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxWrite/pseuds/MaxWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desmond's away again, but Penny's not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God Help Her

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://community.livejournal.com/fandom_obsessed/25971.html)  
>  (Penny's PoV) by [icequeen3101](http://icequeen3101.livejournal.com)
> 
> [](http://community.livejournal.com/stormfronticons/98715.html)  
> (Scotty's PoV) by [realproof](http://realproof.livejournal.com)

He said he'd visit, and now he's here, and he's come such a long way, though according to him, it only took a second. She doesn't ask questions. She doesn't want to know how he's managed it. Stories about the Island were crazy enough, and though she'd never admit it, they scare. It's all too much, too strange. She wants safety, certainty. She wants her son and her husband and her home.

But Desmond's gone again. He hasn't been the same since his return. That Island did something to him, made him restless. He wanders for days on end, comes back sunburned and even more frazzled than before. It always calms down after he's been home a while. Being with Penny and little Charlie always helps ground him, helps make his eyes a little less wild, his moods a little less unpredictable. But it always starts up again sooner or later. And then he's gone again.

So when she received the message, _his_ message, she'd been far more excited than she should have been. She'd scolded herself, told herself to chuck the letter and forget him. But she couldn't. She would smile to herself when she thought about the letter or pass by the secret spot where she kept it hidden away. It had taken her days to figure out how to respond. She'd written her reply, a simple "No, this is wrong, stay away," over and over, and each time, she'd crumpled it up and thrown it away instead of sending it. Every single time. Except one time, the only time that mattered, when her reply had been different, when Desmond had taken off again and she'd turned to her little secret for comfort. Her hand had reached for the pen and had trembled as she wrote, "Yes. Please come."

She doesn't know how it works. All she knows is that his instructions told her to place her reply in the mailbox and leave it there. So, feeling a little silly, she sets the note in the mailbox, closes it, turns away and heads back to the house. And then, mere seconds later …

"Hello, lovely."

The voice is low and that gorgeous accent dances on every syllable. And it's right behind her. She stops dead, heart pounding, and slowly turns. Surely he can't actually be here, not so soon.

He's standing by the mailbox, casual as you please, hands in his pockets, a lopsided smile on his face and a hint of hopefulness in his eyes.

"How …" she begins to say as she steps toward him. She thinks she must be imagining him, but then she's close enough to touch, and so she does, just for a second, just his arm; he is very real. "No, don't tell me," she quickly says, smiling. "I probably wouldn't understand it anyway."

He takes her hand, clearly without thinking. She freezes, resists the urge to glance around for fear of looking guilty to anyone who might be watching. She can tell he wants to kiss her, but he holds back, apparently realizing, too, that they need to be careful. He glances around her quaint little neighborhood, clears his throat and gives her hand back to her.

"It's good to see you again," he says. She can practically feel his voice all the way down in the pit of her stomach, and even lower than that. She feels pleasant little flutterings deep, deep down, feels heat begin to creep up her neck.

"It's good to see you too," she replies. She's still a little shocked that he's here. She stands there, gazing at him for a moment. He becomes shy, drops his gaze and shuffles his feet. He's even cuter when he's flustered.

"Erm, is he …" he begins to ask, nodding at the house behind her.

"No," she says, shaking her head. "Desmond is … away."

He seems to accept this without question. She clears her throat and leads him to the house before the neighbors begin to notice.

The house is filled with their things, her and Desmond's things. There are family pictures on the walls, Desmond's books and music on the shelves. Penny thinks about his golf clubs leaning up against a wall in their bedroom upstairs. Scotty inadvertently sits in the spot where Desmond always sits on the couch. Penny almost says something, but stops herself. It doesn't matter. Scotty's just her friend, after all. Nothing's going to happen here.

She sets his tea down on the coffee table before him, then takes her place at his side on the couch. She doesn't know what to say, and now she wishes she'd sat elsewhere; he's so warm and smells so good. She turns her face away and glances at a picture of herself and Desmond that's sitting on the mantle.

"You've got a lovely home," he says, making lame small talk.

"Thank you," she replies. She hazards a glance at him and finds him with that familiar, slightly longing, slightly rakish, somehow _knowing_ look in his pretty blue eyes. "Little Charlie's asleep just upstairs," she says. It just comes out of her, a response to a question no one's had the guts to ask, an excuse to not do what they're both thinking of doing. She swallows hard and looks away, wrings her hands, turns to find herself and Desmond on the mantle again.

"Too bad he's asleep," he says. "I'd've liked to have met him."

"You really think that's wise?" she asks, suddenly accusatory. "Meeting my son? He's old enough to speak, you know, and just young enough to blurt out things that he shouldn't. If he were to say something about you to his father –"

"Penny, Penny," he says soothingly, shifting a bit and draping his arm along the backrest behind her. "I was just … making small talk. I know it's a bad idea, me bein' here."

She looks at him again. "Then why did you come?"

"You asked me to."

"No, you asked to come because you knew I couldn't say no. I just … you …" She sighs. "Why couldn't you just forget me and go on with your life?"

He glances down, shrugs, a corner of his mouth quirking upward just a little, but not in a smile. He has such a sweet little mouth, she thinks, slightly turned down at the corners, perfect pink lips …

"Can't stop thinkin' about you," he quietly admits, looking up again, his eyes meeting hers from underneath his lashes. There it is, that puppy-dog gaze, like he's caught out in the rain and begging to be let inside. But she can't let him in. No, of course she can't.

"You didn't have to say yes," he points out. "I would've understood. Would've left you alone."

Her eyes travel down his body before she can stop them. They land, of course, right on his crotch, on the slight rise in the fabric of his trousers. She looks away, wondering if he noticed her checking him out. Of course he noticed; he was looking right at her. She rolls her eyes at herself and mutters the word "god" under her breath.

"Penny," he breathes, and then she feels his hand on the back of her neck, gently massaging there as though he can just sense how tense she is. She can't help but melt a little under the touch of those strong, steady engineer's hands. She closes her eyes, feels her shoulders sag. She doesn't have it in her to push him away.

She feels him take her hand and lift it, and then he presses his lips to it. The flutterings begin again, deep down between her legs, and she shifts a bit in her seat, pressing her thighs together. His lips are soft, just as she remembers, slightly moist, just moist enough, and the next thing she knows she's turning her hand over to press her palm to his cheek and then turning her whole body toward him. She barely has time to look into his eyes before she's leaning in and finding his mouth with her own.

Weeks of pent-up need come rushing out. His hands are on her, _finally_ on her, and God help her, it feels so good. Finally she gets to feel those hands creep up underneath her shirt and lay against her bare skin. Finally she gets to have a proper taste of him, opening her mouth and letting his tongue inside. Finally she gets to touch him, her fingers finding their way to his belt, unfastening it, and then popping the button of his trousers open. Then down goes the zipper and in goes her hand.

She gasps just a little at the feeling of his smooth, hot length against her palm. She breaks the kiss so she can look at him, watch his face while she grips and fondles him. His eyes remain closed, a look of desperate need on his face. Then he looks at her and they stare into each other, panting against each other's mouths.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice even lower now than before. It seems to vibrate deep inside her. She doesn't say a word as she pulls her hand free of his pants, stands and begins unfastening her own jeans. She glances toward the short hallway that leads out to the front door. He could be home any second. Desmond. She has no idea when he'll turn up again. Could be tomorrow, could be three days from now, could be right this second. She doesn't know. Her hands tremble and she hesitates.

And then his hands are on hers. He stands and easily gets her jeans open. He doesn't even look down as he does this, he keeps his eyes locked with hers as he pops the button from its hole, unzips the zipper and then slides her jeans and her panties down, his hands caressing her hips as they descend. Her heart is pounding in her ears.

He holds her hands as she steps out of her clothes, and then she is in his arms, hoisted up off the floor, legs wrapped around his hips, arms draped about his shoulders, lips sucking hungrily at his. They are moving, but they don't go far; soon she is pressed back against a wall.

He is hot and hard and nudging against her wet warmth. She wriggles in his arms, trying to help him ease into her. She presses her head back against the wall as he begins to slide inside.

"Just relax, love, I've got you," he breathes, not that he needed to say it; she knows he's got her. She feels the strength in the arms that hold her. He slides in, pressing in all the way, making her gasp out loud. She quickly clenches her teeth to keep quiet. Charlie can't wake up now. It's simply not an option.

She grips his shirt at the shoulders, making her knuckles turn white, as he begins to move. Her eyes roll up in her head. Her mouth hangs open in a silent scream. She can't let that scream out, no matter how badly she wants to. He begins to move, and she tosses her head from side to side, her toes curl and her teeth clench, anything, any little movement to help keep her cries at bay. She begins to move in time with him, her hips pulling back and up and then forward and down, riding him as best she can. She hears his belt buckle clatter to the floor, his trousers finally giving in to gravity.

She lets his hand wander up underneath her shirt, lets his fingers unfasten the clasp at the front of her bra, lets that hand push her shirt up, exposing her, and then cup one of her breasts. She shudders as his fingertips find her nipple and stroke with a feather-light touch as maddening as it is pleasurable. She is slippery wet all over his cock, her muscles clenching tight around him. She can barely catch her breath, her mouth going dry from all her panting.

He grits his teeth, his normally kind eyes now blazing with hunger, and he pushes into her hard. She cries out, can't help it, head banging back against the wall. His big hand is on her mouth in a second, cutting off her screams, and she's so thankful, because now he's fucking her hard, forcing little grunts of effort from his own throat, and she doesn't want to stop him, doesn't want him to go slow, doesn't want to have to be quiet. She lays a hand over the one covering her mouth, and with her other arm she hangs on for the ride, muffled whimpers escaping her.

She feels his mouth on her neck, sucking, biting, claiming. She almost wants him to leave a mark. She drops her hand from his and slips it down between them to find her clit. She shudders as she begins to rub herself, and it's only a few minutes before the pleasure builds to unbearable levels, every part of her tightening, clenching and then finally letting go. She groans hard against his hand, her eyelids fluttering as her muscles spasm out of control.

She has to clamp her mouth shut tight when his hand falls away from it. He holds onto her with both arms as he, too, tenses up and begins to spill into her. He buries his face against her neck and she can hear his almost anguished moans, muffled against her throat. She feels his teeth scraping against her moist skin as he bites. Not hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to leave marks. Just hard enough for her to feel it, for her to know that he could leave his mark if he really wanted to. He could, and she'd let him. God help her, she'd let him.

It's over as quickly as it had begun. He is carefully withdrawing and supporting her so she can lower her feet to the floor. She is wobbly and braces herself against the wall as he bends to get his trousers back up. He tucks himself away, zips up, and then looks at her, into her eyes. She blinks dazedly at him. Everything feels unreal, hazy.

He leans in and kisses her, his hands on her bare midriff. She remembers that she is still naked but for her socks and her top, which is pushed all the way up to her armpits. He breaks the kiss and steps back to have a look at her body. She stands there, dropping her hands from his arms and slipping them between herself and the wall. She lets him look.

"Bloody hell," he murmurs, a mischievous little smile touching his lips. "Am I a lucky sod or what?"

She grins, despite her better judgment, and looks shyly away. She doesn't look at him even as he carefully covers her up again, refastening her bra and pulling her top down. She stands there and lets him dress her, even closing her eyes; a sign of trust. Something about this feels even more intimate than what they'd just done together.

He escorts her back to the couch, to where she let her jeans and panties fall to the floor. It all still feels dreamlike. Her legs are still wobbly, though she hides it well enough. She gets her clothes back on and tries to act as normal as possible.

"I think your tea's probably cold by now," she says as she zips up. "I can reheat it for you if you'd like."

"I'm sure it's fine," he says, but she bends to pick up the cup anyway. He stops her, taking hold of her arm and gently pulling her to him. She meets his eyes and she can see exactly what he's thinking.

"Scotty," she says, ready to protest, but his free hand goes up to her mouth, his fingertips silencing her.

"I don't want to stop seeing you," he murmurs. "If you tell me to go and never contact you again, then I'll leave you alone, but Penny … please don't."

She closes her eyes. He can't beg her. If he begs, she'll give in, her resolve, such as it is, will crumble and her little fling will turn into a full-fledged affair. She never thought she'd become this kind of woman. She never wanted this.

He takes her in his arms again, his hands on her waist. They feel like they belong there.

"Please don't," he repeats in a whisper, right up against her mouth. She lets him kiss her again, and when the kiss breaks, there is no hesitation; she takes his hand and leads him away, to the stairs and up to the second floor, past the soft sound of little Charlie's steady breathing and into the bedroom with Desmond's books and his golf clubs.

END


End file.
